


The Purple Shirt of Sentiment

by jennybookworm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennybookworm/pseuds/jennybookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has taken Sherlocks death too hard, and is struggling to continue living without him. So he turns to one of Sherlock's more favoured possessions as a way to keep the great detective close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purple Shirt of Sentiment

John didn’t care that it was all scrunched up, or that it was tear stained. He didn’t care that it wasn’t as smooth as it normally was. He couldn’t care less if it had started to get a hole in one of the sleeves. He just couldn’t let it go.

She wasn’t allowed to touch it. She knew that. So John was confused as to why she was so desperate to take it from him, to dirty it with different touches and scents. She said that she only wanted to wash it and fix it up a little, but John knew better. It wouldn’t be the same if anyone else ‘took care’ of it. He needed it to stay the same. Mrs Hudson just didn’t understand.

He would run it through his fingers once more, revel in its beauty. John would bring it up to his face, inhaling deeply and rubbing it softly against his cheek. It always brought such comfort and stability. Of course it wasn’t quite the same as having the real deal sat with him. But the shirt would have to do. When John was particularly distraught, he could almost imagine the scent of the man who once wore it, a slight hint of coffee with dark sultry chocolate and musk. It smelt like home.

The deep mauve coloured shirt reminded him of the man he once knew. It was slippery but soft, it gave off an air of superiority but it always managed to bring the doctor back down to earth, much like the man himself.

John had taken to hiding the shirt under his pillow so that he could sleep with it at nights; he would curl himself around it protectively, showing that he could take care of something, even if he had failed at taking care of his flatmate inevitably. His tears had soaked through the shirt many times, on anniversaries, after meetings with Mycroft and Lestrade, but most often when he heard a violin. The soft melodies that sometimes echoed through John’s ears would captivate him for a few seconds and he would think about asking him who composed it, before remembering that there was no one left to ask. John never thought that he would miss the scraping sounds at ungodly hours of the night, but he did. And that made it almost unbearable.

The event that had triggered today’s episode of snuggling with the shirt had been innocent enough in another person’s eyes, but to John Watson the emotional turmoil it brought was irrefutable. In the surgery a young mother was trying to teach her little boy about the solar system. This in itself was enough to get nostalgic over but it was the young child’s response that brought on the waterworks. “But what does it matter if the Earth goes around the Sun?” the small voice had piped up.

John couldn’t stay any longer; the tears had welled up in his eyes and were in severe danger of spilling over. He stumbled home in a daze, concentrating solely on not letting his emotions make a fool out of him in public. But as soon as he had closed the door on Mrs Hudson and walked into Sherlock’s old room the rivulets of tears began to pour.

The doctor was curled up in the foetal position, the shirt clasped in his fingers and brought right into his chest, the edges of the material just brushing his face, touching just enough to catch the salty water droplets that ran down his cheeks. Great wracking sobs pulsated their way through John’s body as he gripped the shirt even tighter, needing this anchor to Sherlock. Needing the man himself.

A slight intake of breath alerted John to someone else’s presence in the room and he immediately tried to quieten his moans. A useless endeavour as the person had obviously already heard him weeping, but John wished to save as much dignity as possible. When he was certain that he was not going to shed any more tears in front of the invader, John swivelled on the bed to face the trespasser.

“Sentiment?” the rich baritone voice that John had longed to hear graced his ears and the familiar crinkled nose that always accompanied the question made itself known, the eyes glistened with some unknown emotion that couldn’t quite keep itself hidden as John gaped at the one man he wanted to see but never thought he would. 

Words wrestled to be the first to leave his mouth, one after another they pushed their way to the front before John eventually blurted, “Sentiment.”


End file.
